Dig under that tree, is the challenge, and find the bones of an interesting person. I do my best. But once the first layer of dirt is scraped away there’s nothing between the roots but trash, a dead crab, vegetable slime. I pull out something like a long fibrous husk. It doesn’t count.
On TV there’s a show about a small surviving population of Homo habilis, who have been living in the open all this time adjacent to urban civilization. A young female, eyes bright under her brow ridge, listens as her new friend from the city explains science. “I understand you,” she tells him, “but how did Einstein and Schwarzschild feel when they made these discoveries? Where was the emotion?”
